


every 8 o'clock evening

by IHaveNothingToDo



Series: Hourly Vibe Checks [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, i still have no CLUE what to tag these, softcore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IHaveNothingToDo/pseuds/IHaveNothingToDo
Summary: you're an 8pm weekend.
Relationships: ambiguous
Series: Hourly Vibe Checks [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654531
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	every 8 o'clock evening

**Author's Note:**

> For Cal

It’s quiet now. The sleepy end to a day in the sun. I think of you during the movie, and again at its end. I stumble down the hall, screen drunk, and collapse into bed. It is not made. It is not whole. I heave out of it, wiping action and comedy from my eyes. Off the blankets come, the pillows fall into order. I get distracted between them, the randomness of the day collected in our bed. Under one is a book, another at the edge of the blanket, is a mug. Behind my favorite pillow, the one that always smells like you, is a journal. I think of you when I open the cover and photos of you smile between the pressed leaves of plants you picked out the names for. I smile to match the photos, and caress the finish. I think of you again when it does not touch me back. I tuck it under the mattress, too sleepy to find a proper place for it now. 

On comes the first blanket, a worn thing you keep dragging here from the living room, no matter how many times I drag it back out. I reorder the pillows, stalling for time. Time. Grime. I need to wash the bedding for the month. I think of you as I acknowledge that thought as another stall. On goes the second blanket, a new thing that matches the drapes but almost always gets kicked to the floor in our snuggling. 

The tap of your knuckles against the door makes me smile, then peel back my newly made covers to wait for you. 

You are an 8pm evening, with the clock glowing bright figures back at me over your shoulder. You are the swish of comfy clothes worthy of my newly made bed as you climb in. Together we are sleepy, worn. We are not tired yet.

.

.

.

Together here, we are minutes spent quietly talking, fingers tapping against noses, smiles committed to memory. Together we are satisfied, and I will wait for you every 8 oclock evening. 


End file.
